This bonus extra takes place just before Gray and Jazz’s wedding in Untwisted, Lost in Oblivion #2.5.

The catering truck jerked into a space at the curb with a squeal of brakes that made Lila Shawcross narrow her eyes. A moment later, the door swung open and out stepped the jackass of her worst nightmares—

Probably because he starred in way too many of her fantasies, if she allowed herself to have such.

Because he was all wrong.

Wrong.

Hell, it wasn’t that he was bad looking. Far from it. His shaggy blondish-brown hair hung over his forehead and teased his collar. Somehow the sunlit strands were both wavy and straight, and when he pulled off his shades, his amber eyes were almost the same color. Not quite gold, not quite brown, but caught in between.

The man himself was never so agreeable.

“Was this really necessary?” Nick Crandall asked, hooking his glasses in the front pocket of his jeans. He stepped onto the curb and arched a brow. “Surely you could’ve had Donovan or one of your lackeys do this for you.” His lips thinned into what passed for a smile. “Or maybe your husband?”

There was no mistaking the faux innocence in his question. Since he’d overheard her discussing her husband with Gray a few months ago in the hospital, he’d done his level best to slide it into casual conversation whenever he could. Not to be friendly, she was certain. More like he enjoyed needling her, though why that particular jab hurt more than most wasn’t something she was about to confess anytime soon.

“My husband has more important tasks to handle than worrying about fitting the wedding bands of members of rock bands I manage.” She tried to sound aloof and above reproach, but it was hard. Hard around Nick, period, harder still when her husband was the topic du jour.

Nick and her husband didn’t belong in the same sentence, ever, for too many reasons to count.

“Oh, and I don’t have anything better to do than to help Gray get hitched? Gray, of all people?” Nick tucked his fists under his biceps, still surprisingly visible under the beat-up leather jacket he wore.

Sometimes he wore an equally distressed denim one, most likely something he’d had for years. He refused to throw anything away and lived like a miser in spite of his money. The members of Oblivion weren’t millionaires yet, but they were on their way. Still, Nick behaved just as he had when he’d been poor. His meal of choice was bologna sandwiches and he didn’t even own a car, choosing to bum Jazz’s or Harper’s catering truck though he could very well afford his own. Oblivion’s band van from the old days had finally stopped running, and so Nick had resorted to grabbing rides.

Basically, he didn’t resemble anyone she’d ever known—in any way.

“Yes, I know you have a past with Gray.” She made a show of unclasping and reclasping her purse rather than meeting his eyes. She really had no desire to think about Nick’s threesome days with Jazz and Gray.

Threesomes. Who did stuff like that?

Rock stars. It was a very rock star thing to do.

The fact that her own sex life was much more staid didn’t hold much bearing. She wasn’t a musician. She’d never even held a guitar. Oh, they fascinated her. They held such power and magic. But she knew her own skill set lived in planners and behind a desk. She hadn’t been born to make music, just to corral and help hone those who had.

Like Nick, of the quick, talented fingers and sulky mouth. He had magic, all right. Too much for his own good. And hers.

She also hadn’t been born to have threesomes, judging from her very lackluster sexual past. Her future wasn’t looking much better.

That was just fine. She didn’t need to have threesomes to be satisfied. Sure, she had some curiosity, but she also had curiosity about skydiving and had never sought to participate in a high rise jump.

Long shafts of any sort were best to be avoided at all costs.

Nick cleared his throat. “Well, not with Gray so much, but with Jasmine, yes.”

There was that too, how he referred to Jazz as Jasmine with that huskiness in his voice, as if he was reliving fond memories every time. Likely fond naked memories.

She was probably just imagining things, just envisioning ghosts where none existed. Jazz was about to get married to Gray, and Nick certainly didn’t seem to be nursing a broken heart.

Still, she wondered.

She wondered about that storied threesome, and how it was they could’ve come together so explosively and yet broken up with relatively little fanfare—minus the tabloid action, which continued to this very day. But all press was good press, especially for a band on the rise, so she didn’t attempt to squelch it. Not that she could. Love triangles were the fuel to everyone’s fantasies. Messy, dirty, but lots of women didn’t mind the idea of being the eye of two very sexy guitarists’ storm. At least in theory.

“Yes, well, Jasmine is getting married, and you know, that means the past is buried and dead.”

That lone brow lifted one more time, though his smirk never faltered. “Thank you for that update. And here I was still carrying a torch for the preggo bride-to-be.”

“If that’s so, sucks to be you.” Lila turned away and opened the door to the jeweler’s shop.

His hand—stupidly large, with ridiculously long, dexterous fingers—pressed against the glass door and shut it with a decisive click. He loomed over her, taller by a good half a foot, but she wasn’t used to feeling dwarfed by anyone of any size. She walked tall, stood taller. Never let herself be cowed by anyone. Outwardly anyway.

But Nick was an exception. She wouldn’t say he intimidated her, with his size or otherwise. No, he never made her feel afraid.

Just very, very aware.

“I’m not into old flames. They burn you more often that not.” He spoke close to her hair—close enough she could tell he’d been smoking again. He quit every other week, but the smell wasn’t repugnant as it should have been. On him, the scents of leather and smoke became a sultry tease, a reminder of all she couldn’t have.

Had never had, in any real capacity.

“Current ones can do that too,” she said, oddly breathless, staring through the glass to where a man in a suit and a woman in a teal dress showed customers their finery. But they might as well have been miles away, trapped inside an antiseptic moneyed world while she was locked out.

With him.

His ridiculously gigantic hand flexed against the door just above her head. “Oh, I’m sure. I don’t have any of those, myself. What about you, sweetness? Is your husband your current flame?”

“You need to back up,” she said, resisting the urge to turn and poke her finger in his chest. Not because he didn’t deserve a good hard poke, but because she wasn’t about to put their faces in close proximity. No way. “You’re overstepping.”

“Am I? Is that because you’re technically my boss?” He flicked his fingers over the ends of her hair and she was pretty sure her spine shivered. “Or is it because you’re a married woman?”

“No. It’s because if you don’t, I’ll step so hard on your foot that you’ll end up with a stiletto heel protruding between your toes.”

“Hmm. Threats of violence. So unlike such a civilized sort as yourself.” Though he waited another beat, he finally eased back enough for her to reach for the door. Before she could open it herself, he did the honors, gesturing for her to go inside. “After you, Mrs. Shawcross.”

Inhaling sharply, she strode inside and smiled at Mr. Phelps, the man she’d spoken to on the phone. “Hello. I’m Lila Shawcross, and I called to pick up—”

“The Duffy rings. Yes, yes, of course. I’m sorry they weren’t correctly sized. Normally we have procedures in place to ensure that something like this never occurs. Unfortunately, Stacey is new, and—”

“It’s fine.” Lila waved it off. She just wanted to get this over with as fast as humanly possible. “I have a hand you can use to ensure the rings will work.”

Mr. Phelps frowned. “Well, yes, you’re a woman, but for Mr. Duffy’s…”

“Use his,” she said, jerking a chin in Nick’s general direction. He slouched at her side, staring anywhere but at the miles of diamond rings in the case. She imagined a wedding band would be like a ball and chain around Mr. Commitment Phobe’s throat.

“He’s approximately the same size as Mr. Duffy?”

“No. Not even close. Add about three in—”

“Enough,” Lila barked, hating that she could feel her cheeks heating. He would know how well Gray was built too, because he’d seen it up close and personal. Though she didn’t doubt he was just posturing about his own endowments.

She so wasn’t considering what three inches more would be like, since Jasmine hadn’t hesitated to tell her that Gray wasn’t exactly the size of a cocktail shrimp. Irrelevant information in all ways. She was Oblivion’s manager, not their personal physician, for God’s sake.

“This won’t take long,” Mr. Phelps said, clearly ready to get the surly, sex-posturer out of his rarefied shop.

She didn’t blame him. Nick was anti-couth. Anti-classy.

Anti-all of the things she’d been surrounded with since childhood.

She moved forward and held out her hand. Her right, not her left. She’d never taken off her wedding band, though she should have a long time ago. In this case, her sentimentality was ill-placed, since her husband didn’t feel similarly. He hadn’t worn his ring since a few months after the ceremony seven years ago. She wasn’t sure he even still owned it.

Hocked it for drugs, probably. Not because he needed the money—far from it—but just to prove a point. She might be beholden to him, but that road was a one-way street.

Mr. Phelps took her hand and she would’ve sworn Nick growled deep in his throat. She cut him a sharp look and found his face held no reaction at all. His golden cat eyes were glazed like ice. Impermeable.

“You’re a bit larger than Ms. Edwards.” Mr. Phelps rubbed his thumb over her knuckles while he consulted his notes. Again, there was a sound from Nick, muffled and dark. Like an angry wolf lurking in the bushes, ready to snap.

This time she didn’t look. She didn’t want to know if it was wishful thinking that he was even paying attention.

So much of her life had been built on wishes and dreams. Some of them had come to fruition. Most had not.

Mr. Phelps made a few notations on his pad, then let her go. “That should be fine. Now your turn.” He shifted to Nick. “If you don’t mind.”

“Anything for the happy couple.” His thin smile never wavered as he extended his hand and shot her a steady, measuring look.

She fought to drag her gaze from his, but it was like being caught in a force field. She’d never had that power turned on her in just that way before. Her breath backed up in her chest, and the fingers clutching her purse trembled as if he’d touched her with more than his eyes.

Somehow she ripped her gaze from his just as Mr. Phelps slid that thick gold band on his finger. And it was a perfect fit.

Perfect.

The laughter bubbled up in her throat, and both men stared at her as she struggled to swallow it down. Especially since at the edges of that near-hysterical laughter lurked tears.

She never cried. Never. She had no reason to here. She was happy for Jazz and Gray, and miserable for herself, but one had nothing to do with the other.

“Well then, look at that,” Mr. Phelps said quietly, noting something on his pad while Nick flexed his hand. “Excellent hand choice, Ms. Shawcross. Could not be more exact.”

Did he sound amused or was that her imagination?

“You mean Mrs. Shawcross,” Nick said, offering her a bland smile.

Deliberately, she tugged out her phone and sent Gray a text. She’d be damned if she got into some kind of pissing contest with Nick, especially when she wasn’t even sure why.

Wouldn’t allow herself to acknowledge why.

Gray responded almost immediately. Thank you so much, you’re a lifesaver. Cya soon.

She smiled faintly and glanced up to find Nick still watching her, his gaze narrowed until only the thinnest slits of tawny gold remained visible. Just like that, her smile faded.

She was so glad she’d been able to help Gray and Jazz on their special day. She cared deeply about them both, and they were so in love. They deserved nothing but the best.

But she had to wonder. When the day came, who was going to save her life?